Friday, 28 January 2011

Timeless rapture

You enchant me with melodic Escher staircases,
scintillating all the way up my spine into my brain.
I walk around in bewilderment so that again I have to tie my shoe laces.
Brilliant and powerful and passionate, perfect is the harmony train.

Where the notes play a strange kind of algebra;
the rich tonality echoes like a rainbow in my mind,
displacing even the darkest of shadow in the mind’s umbra,
where music, poetry and mathematics are intertwined.

Colour and light expanding mind, making room for geometrical thought,
and causing a riot with my passionate sensibilities,
evoking true love to be sought,
calculating all the probabilities and possibilities.

That your music has lived on,
that your compositions can make thine spirit alive in me,
even though thou art long gone,
that still today it can be.

Even though your heart is in an urn, in a pillar, in a church,
and no longer beating in your ribcage, in your handsome frame,
but in the ears of the mind of the beholder’s search,
your music lights mine heart aflame.

It teleports me into the past, at a time when Delacroix painted us together,
where I was an imposter in a man’s world,
freeing myself from all forms of tether,
so that my spirit could be unfurled.

In the dress of men I was free and unrestrained,
men’s clothes aside I was such a womanly woman,
your melodies unchained.
So remarkable was our acumen.

I, a French novelist,
imparting the first kiss,
always looking forward to our tryst.
I was the love of your life; eternal is this bliss.

4 comments:

Quirina, you made a little masterpiece here. I love it, it's impressive, in the first place by the poetic beauty of the content and the language.What I like especially - and miss so often in poetry work - is the complexity of interwoven thoughts and pictures. And the carefully crafted structure of this poem, the rhythm and the discreet rhyme. Congratulations!

Blog author.

Quirina Roode-Gutzmer

What this blog is about.

This blog contains stories. Some of them are true, some false, some of them are funny, sad, tragic, poetic, rarely horrific, often weird, sometimes downright far-fetched and occasionally in another language. These stories are incubated in a procrastinating mind otherwise occupied by raising three interesting children (for love), translating German texts into English (for bread), writing my novel (for butter), and there was something else (for jam; cherry jam; stoned cherry jam, no less).